


let me be that i am

by ladymedraut



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: F/F, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymedraut/pseuds/ladymedraut
Summary: There was something about Don John that was wild and fey and free, something that Conrade could not help but love. But there was a sharpness to her too, a hedge of thorns that stood between her and the rest of the world. And perhaps her bastard blood had watered it, but it had not planted the seeds.Or, Conrade contemplates just what it is about Don John that keeps her by her side.





	let me be that i am

“Tell me again why you’re going through with this absurd scheme of Borachio’s?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe just poison your brother at Hero and Claudio’s wedding? Wouldn’t that be easier? It’s him you hate, isn’t it, not Claudio and Hero?”

“I hate them all. I hate everyone in this goddamn villa.” Don John slumped against Conrade’s shoulder, the empty bottle tumbling from her fingers and shattering on the flagstones.

“Not me and Borachio, I hope,” Conrade laughed, brushing Don John’s ragged hair behind her ear. She didn’t return her love, she knew that, she knew she would never return it. But that didn’t change the feeling that stirred in her stomach when she looked down at her, her dark hair unkempt, her eyes staring off into the night, the scar Don Pedro’s sword had etched into her face gleaming in the moonlight.

It was hopeless. She should give up. Don John loved no one, not even herself.

“I hate you the least,” Don John mumbled, throwing an arm around Conrade's shoulders.

Conrade would have to be content with that. She supposed she should move on, find someone who loved her back, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the prince’s bastard sister. She had so few friends, so few people she could trust. Just her and Borachio. She didn’t want to think what would happen to her if she left.

And so she stayed, waiting for these moments when Don John fell asleep on her shoulder. She would pick her up gently and carry her back to her rooms, lay her in the big empty four-poster bed, and fall asleep in her armchair staring into the empty fireplace, the words for her affection dying unspoken on her lips. Perhaps she should tell her how she felt about her, if only so Don John realized that there was someone out there who truly cared about her. But even though Conrade had known her for years, she had no idea how she would react to her feelings. Surely if she had shared them, she would have said something long ago. Although Conrade could not bring herself to confess her love to Don John, she had not exactly been subtle about where her affection lay.

“You’re worrying about something,” Don John muttered drowsily. “You get all tense when you’re worried.”

“I’m worried about you, idiot.”

“Don’t be. I know what I’m doing.”

“Why do I doubt that?”

“Because you’re Conrade.” Maybe it was just her imagination, but Conrade thought she heard the hint of a smile in Don John’s voice. She waited for her to say something else, but a few minutes later Don John had drifted into unconsciousness.

Conrade waited a few moments longer to make sure she was truly asleep, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the shabby chambers Leonato had given her. All of Messina was asleep at this hour. Don John would be glad about that. She hated anyone seeing her when she was vulnerable. Conrade set her down gently on the bed and drew the blanket gently up around her shoulders.

“Goodnight, my lady,” she whispered, going to take her accustomed place in her armchair. But this was Messina, not Aragon. There was no armchair. And so Conrade sighed and lay down on the floor instead, to stare up at the cracked ceiling and ponder why it was that she had stayed by Don John's side for so long. 

There was something about the bastard of Aragon that was wild and fey and free, something that Conrade could not help but love. But no matter how much she loved her, somehow she could never conjure up an image in her mind of them kissing, or lying in bed together, or even holding hands. She couldn’t imagine her with anyone, for that matter. There was a sharpness to Don John, a hedge of thorns that stood between her and the rest of the world. And perhaps her bastard blood had watered it, but it had not planted the seeds.

Don John was all rough edges and long silences. She was fire trapped in a shell of ice, or maybe she was ice wreathed in fire—Conrade found it almost impossible to tell. So many times she had wanted to wrap her arms around her and hold her close, but her hands had never moved from her sides for fear that he would be cut or burnt or frozen. Don John slept with a knife under her pillow, Conrade had seen her put it there, but it was her eyes that frightened her more than any hidden blade. Her eyes were steel and iron, impenetrable, unreadable… They were beautiful and deadly, just like the woman they belonged to.

Something had happened between her and Claudio once, but she had never gathered up the courage to ask her. She could only see the hatred in her eyes when she looked at him. It was almost a mirror of her hatred for Don Pedro, her half-brother, but John’s hatred for Claudio burned darker, ran deeper.

Conrade was afraid of where that cold anger would take her, but there was nothing she could do to remedy it—just stand by her side and watch her as she fell. It was too much to hope that Don John would let Conrade catch her. And Conrade respected her lady too much to ever lay a finger on her without her consent. Sometimes, when she was in a good mood, she would sling a familial arm around her shoulders and she would return the gesture, but she always let Don John initiate it. She had seen what happened when someone touched Don John without her permission—even if it was just a pat on the back, her muscles tensed, her eyes narrowed, and the offending limb was promptly shaken off.

She had always been like that. Perhaps she was neither fire nor ice. Maybe she was stone.

But Conrade had heard her laugh great, guffawing laughs and she had seen her smile… And oh, she was beautiful when she smiled, no matter what the rest of the court might think. Of course, Conrade would have said she was beautiful even in her usual melancholy state, but when she smiled… She couldn’t take his eyes off her. She would give the world to make her smile. And if this harebrained plot of Borachio's would put a smile on Don John's face, well, Conrade would just have to see it through. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I wrote this ages ago... Just found it again cleaning up some old files and figured better late than never?


End file.
